


The Flower That Blooms In Adversity

by CelestialVoid



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Gods & Goddesses, Alternate Universe - Greek Mythology, BAMF Stiles, Blood, Blood and Gore, Blood and Injury, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Cerberus - Freeform, Character Death, Derek Hale is Hades, Ghosts, Hellhounds, Injured Stiles Stilinski, Injury, Injury Recovery, M/M, Major Character Injury, Minor Character Death, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Post Hale Fire, Slow Build Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski, Slow Burn, Spirits, Stiles Stilinski is Persephone, The Hale Fire, Violence, Work In Progress
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-14
Updated: 2018-10-30
Packaged: 2019-08-01 18:42:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 12,246
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16289747
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CelestialVoid/pseuds/CelestialVoid
Summary: When Stiles Stilinski – the God of nature and harvests – is bitten by a viper, Derek Hale – the God of the Underworld – fights to keep him alive, taking him to the Underworld where he can keep him safe. However, the Heavens are not happy.





	1. I

**Author's Note:**

> “The flower that blooms in adversity is the most rare and beautiful of all.” _– Mulan_.

The boy walked through the field of golden wheat, careless and unburdened. He trailed his hands through the stalks, watching as the crops slid through this fingers like ribbons of water. Veins of gold trailed after him as he wove this way through the flourishing crops.

The radiant sunlight played across his pale skin. His body was covered in moles that danced like the stars in the night sky, charting out constellations on his skin. The soft breeze blew through the tousled mess of his hair, his dark eyes catching the light and sparkling like golden liquor. The fabric of his robes billowed around him, the faint hem of golden embroidery glittering as it moved. A crown of flowers rested on his head, a halo of olive leaves, soft roses, pale peonies, and sprigs of baby’s breath that the children in the nearby town had made for him. Coils of vines and golden cuffs would their way around his slender arms, small buds and blossoming flowers making his pale skin seem radiant.

Stiles. The God of nature and harvests.

He was gorgeous; pure and perfect.

Derek watched him from afar, always scared to step out of the shadows; scared to get too close.

He looked down at himself, dressed in a smooth black leather vest that had been weathered with age. A long black cape billowed from his shoulders, pinned in place by two silver triskelion broaches – the symbol of the three Great Families: Argent—the Gods of the Heavens, Deucalion—the gods of the Sea, and Hale—the Gods of the Underworld. Silver cuffs were wound around his bare biceps, embedded with rubies and onyx. He wore black pants and knee-high black leather sandals that wrapped around his calves, decorated with shiny silver studs.

He felt his heart sink into his stomach, dropping his gaze as he disappeared into the shadows.

How could someone as radiant and pure as Stiles ever like a corrupted being like Derek?

Derek heart skipped a beat as a cry echoed throughout the field.

His eyes snapped up in time to see Stiles’ face turned towards the heavens, twisted in pain as tears broke past his lashes and fell down his cheeks. His scream died away as he drew in a deep breath, his body weakening. The swaying wheat surrounding Stiles withered and died, the golden stalks rotting and turning black as the boy collapsed among the crop. He disappeared among the stalks of wheat, pulling him down like foaming waves that surrounded a sinking body.

Derek leapt out of the darkness, the shadows trailing behind him as his cape billowed around him. The wheat parted as he ran through the field, a howling gust of wind thrashing the stalks. He sprinted to the boy’s side, dropping to one knee as he looked down at the young man.

Stiles lay on the ground, his face twisted in pain. He was ghostly pale, beads of sweat forming on his brow and trickling down the side of his face. His body was still, limbs sprawled and unmoving.

Derek listened, hearing the frail wisps of breath that passed Stiles’ trembling lips as he struggled to breathe. His eyes rolled over the young man’s body, catching a glimpse of a leathery-black body of something slithering across the boy’s leg before disappearing into the maze of wheat. Derek’s eyes drifted to Stiles’ ankle, falling on the bloody welts that pierced his skin. Streams of blood and clear trails of venom trailed across his skin, droplets like rubies falling to the earth where they shattered like glass.

Stiles’ expression weakened, his eyes fluttering slightly before falling still.

That’s when Derek heard them; the inhuman whispers and animalistic growls.

His head whipped up.

 _Hellhounds_ , he thought.

He looked down at the young man again, realisation hitting him hard: they were coming for Stiles.

“Damn,” Derek hissed under his breath.

He tore a strip of fabric from his own robes, tying it around Stiles’ leg to stop the venom spreading, or to at least slow it. He hoisted the boy’s limp body into his arms, digging his feet into the cool earth as he ran back towards where he had come from, to the foot of the rocky mountain bluffs where the entrance to the Underworld was concealed by the shadows.

His feet pounded against the earth, his blood beating in his ears. His chest ached as his heart thumped against his ribs.

They were drawing closer, rolling in like story thunderclouds and bringing with them a tense static that hung in the air.

The heavens above rumbled as the gods realised they had lost one of their own.

The misty clouds rolled into the valley, blinding him as he ran forwards. But it didn’t matter, he knew where he was going; it called to him.

Droplets of rain fell to the earth, gathering in puddles beneath his feet and washing over his face. The fabric of his robes absorbed the water, dragging him back.

He pushed on, running faster. He couldn’t let them catch him; he couldn’t let them take Stiles.

His feet struck dry earth as he burst into the cave, sprinting into the abysmal darkness and into the world beyond.

He burst through the gates of the Underworld and into his home, the heavy doors opening at his will. The torches in the metal brackets bolted to the walls roared to life as fire lit the way.

The doors slammed shut behind him as he burst into the open living space. His feet slid across the marble floors as he ran towards the sunken lounge room, laying Stiles’ limp body on the couch before the marble fireplace.

The flames flickered and crackled, burning brighter as the warm orange glow lit the room and cast shadows across Stiles’ face. In the light of the fire, Derek could see how sunken the boy’s features were; how frail he looked.

Derek felt them approach before he heard them. He ran to the heavy oak door by that was fitted into the wall near the living room, shoving it shut and pushing the heavy iron bolt into place.

The hellhounds slammed against the door. Derek stumbled backwards, his heart racing as the hinges rattled and the door struggled to hold them back. They snapped, snarled and growled ferociously, locked on to Stiles’ scent. The door rumbled as they threw their weight against it, over and over again, desperate to get inside.

“Enough!” Derek bellowed, his voice ringing out through the Underworld.

The room fell silent, the hellhounds retreating from the door.

Derek let out a heavy breath, feeling his body tremble and his power subside. He turned his attention back to Stiles. He hurried into the kitchen, trying to remember the ingredients his mother would use for the times when he or his sisters were bitten.

“Leafless mistletoe aerials, nettle leaves, grape seeds and fox-grape root,” he listed, pulling a mortar and pestle out of the cupboard. He froze, looking at the boy.

If something from the Underworld were to pass the lips of someone from the Surface World they would be bound to the Underworld; that was the rule. And that included medicines.

He couldn’t use the plants that grew in the Underworld. He couldn’t bind Stiles to a life of misery and darkness. He couldn’t deprive the him of that choice, of his freedom.

He rushed over to the lounged, kneeling beside Stiles’ frail body.

“I need you to hold on,” he whispered. “I know you are stronger than people think you are. You’re a fighter. I’m going to help, I just need you to hold on a little longer.”

Stiles’ breathing slowed, no longer stained by pain or weakened. His eyes fluttered as if he were dreaming. His fingers twitched as he balled his hand into a fist.

Derek felt his heart flutter as he looked at the young man.

He was fighting.

Derek grabbed a blanket, draping it over Stiles’ frail body. He gently brushed aside the stands of hair that clung to Stiles’ face.

“I’ll be back,” he promised. “Just hold on.”

He leapt to his feet and ran for the doors, the heavy gates opening before him as he sprinted towards the Surface, the darkness carrying him like a breeze. He ran through the fields gathering the things he needed before rushing back to the Underworld.

He slid to a stop when he noticed another person in the room; a dark figure standing by the couch, looking at Stiles with an expression of confusion and contemplation. His brown hair was pulled back from his face, his pale eyes flicking up to meet Derek’s.

“The God of Death, trying to save a life?” his uncle scoffed. “How ironic?”

“Peter,” Derek said warningly. “I do not need a lecture from you right now.”

He turned and rushed into the small kitchen. He set the herbs and plants down on the counter, sorting through them as he grabbed the parts he needed and put them in the mortar. He began to grind them together in a paste.

“What makes him so special?” Peter asked, glaring at the small figure that laid on the couch. A look of disgust twisted his face.

“He—” Derek stopped himself. He felt his heart skip a beat as he answered, “He just is.”

Derek set the pestle aside, gathering bandages and carrying the mortar full of paste over to the couch. He lifted the blanket, looking down at Stiles’ ankle, bile rising in his throat as he looked down at the bite.

It had gotten worse.

His veils were pulsing black as the venom spread, the bite was swollen and bruising, colouring his ankle with smears or black, blue, purple and green. Blood streamed from the wound, droplets falling into a pool that was gathering on the marble tiles.

Derek tried his best to be gentle as he wiped a cloth across the wound, clearing away the blood and fluid. He smeared the paste across the wound.

Stiles’ body tensed, but he was too weak to pull away. He whimpered in pain, making Derek’s gut twist with guilt.

“You do remember that your role as the God of the Underworld is to ferry dying souls into the Underworld, right?” Peter reminded him. “Not to try and save them.”

“Peter, please,” Derek said, impatience wearing this voice thin.

“Fine, I’ll leave,” Peter huffed. “But I can’t wait to see how you explain this to Argent. I warn you, it won’t be pleasant.”

Derek ignored his uncle, gently wrapping a bandage around Stiles’ ankle.

Derek watched out the corner of his eye as his uncle’s image blurred into smoke, folding in on itself as he teleported somewhere else.

He let out a sigh and sat down on the rug by the couch, waiting by the Stiles’ side until he settled.


	2. II

Peter’s warning came true only hours later.

Derek had carried Stiles to a spare room, carefully laying him on the bed and draping the soft sheets over his frail body. He sat by the boy’s side, listening to his soft breathing as he settled into a dreamless sleep.

Derek flinched as a thundering boom shook the Underworld, a flash of blinding light filling the rooms as Chris Argent – God of the Heavens – made his presence known. Derek drew in a deep breath and rose to his feet. He stepped out of the room, confronting the man who stood in the open room.

His weary brow was creased, his face set in a scowl. His jaw was set firm, his short beard coloured by greying hairs. Bolts of blue and white lightning danced about his body, still settling from his entrance. The air was heavy with static, a tense energy that set Derek’s nerves on fire.

Chris lowered pale green eyes on Derek, his glare cutting through the young man.

“Where is the boy?” he asked, his voice gruff.

“Resting,” Derek answered.

“He will be taken back to Olympus,” Chris said with finality.

“No, he will not,” Derek refused.

Chris turned on him, narrowing his gaze on the young man. Rage burnt in his eyes, his voice tense as he said, “I beg your pardon.”

“If he takes one step out of this world before he is healed, he will die,” Derek said firmly. “The hellhounds will be on him in seconds and his soul will be taken to the Underworld. If you try to take him to Olympus, he will die.”

Argent seemed to think about it for a moment, his eyes darkening in thought.

“I will not allow you to take him,” Derek continued, surprised at the defiance in his voice. “He is safe here. I can keep the hounds at bay; they won’t get to him, I won’t let them. I can protect him here. I can keep him alive.”

“We have healers in Olympus; medicine, food and water,” Chris argued.

“I can make medicines, I will fetch food and water from the Surface every day. I will make sure that nothing from his world passes his lips. I will not bind him to the Underworld without his consent.”

Chris was shocked by that statement, his eyes widening as he looked at Derek. He stared at the young man with piercing blue eyes, his gaze tearing through the boy. “You swear you will keep the boy safe?”

“I swear on my family’s name,” Derek answered.

“And what do I tell the boy’s father?” Chris asked.

“Tell him his son is alive and safe,” Derek said. “And if he does not believe you, he’s welcome to come and see for himself. But I cannot let Stiles leave until he is well.”

Chris drew in a deep breath, thinking it over for a moment. His gaze drifted over Derek’s shoulder to the bed where the boy lay, resting peacefully. “May I see him? There might be something I can do to help.”

Derek nodded, taking a step aside and letting Chris step into the room.

The room was surprisingly large and comforting, the walls covered in ornate panelling that was painted black. A tiered chandelier hung from the ceiling, the flames of the candles glinting as they caught the reflection of the shimmering crystals, casting light around the room.

Pies of old books were stacked against the walls—old hardcover books, leather bound journals and other books that looked like antiques, all bound in magnificent colours of scarlet, burgundy, deep green, gold, and grey. The spines of the books were decorated by gold or silver lettering that read the titles, adorned with small metal studs and a few were even fastened with small hinges that looked to be made of brass or silver.

A small wooden chair sat in one corner of the room, a blanket thrown across it. Beside the chair was a small alcove that was decorated by cushions, blankets and a book that had been set aside.

The bed sat in the centre of the room, pushed back against one wall. It was covered in black sheets, soft blankets and a golden silk throw. Beneath the sheets lay the withered figure, shuddering despite the blankets that lay atop him.

“What happened?” Chris asked, crouching beside the bed to get a better look at the boy’s face.

“He was bitten by a snake, by the look of it,” Derek explained. “His right ankle.”

Chris gently pulled back the sheet to get a better look. He unfurled the bandage on Stiles’ ankle, his eyes flying open wide as he looked at the weeping wound and the pulsing black veins.

“What are you treating it with?” he asked, his pale eyes meeting Derek’s.

“A paste made from leafless mistletoe aerials, nettle leaves, grape seeds and fox-grape root,” he answered. “It is a remedy my mother taught me.”

Chris nodded thoughtfully. He held his hand over the wound, bolts of lightning dancing across his fingertips as his hand began to glow. Streams of light filled Stiles’ veins as Chris’ magic flowed through him.

Stiles let out a weak whimper, his body tensing and his face twisted in agony.

“Stop it! You’re hurting him!” Derek shouted, sprinting to Stiles’ side.

Chris pulled back, his brow furrowed as he looked at the boy.

The darkness in his veins pulsed as it spread further up his leg like ink in water. Stiles choked on his breath as he fought back sobs, glistening tears rolling down his cheeks.

Derek crawled up onto the bed, sitting next to Stiles as he took the boy’s hand in his own. Derek’s eyes glowed crimson red, the veins of his arms darkening as he took the Stiles’ pain.

Stiles let out a soft sigh, his body relaxing as he sank back against the sheets.

Derek waited for a moment, watching the young man’s chest rise and fall, his breathing steadying as he succumbed to sleep. He let go of Stiles’ hand, sitting back on the mattress. He kept his eyes on Stiles, scared to look at Chris, to see the look of shock on the man’s face.

“He’s safe here,” Derek assured him. “I swear on my mother, I will keep him safe.”


	3. III

His boots sank into the muddy sludge that covered the ground, dragging at his feet and making him stumble and slow slightly. He slid across the slimy bed of dead leaves as he ran down the winding path. The towering trees arched over him, the tunnelling darkness pulling at him as he ran towards the cliffside.

He disappeared among the shadows that covered the cavern, his feet thumping the ground. The torches that lined the walls of the tunnels roared to life as he passed, his eyes focused on the distant orange glow.

Rancid smoke and ash filled his lungs as he ran, burning his nose and making him cough and gasp breathlessly. The cold night air stung his cheeks, freezing the tears that streamed down his face.

He skidded to a halt, his legs trembling as he stood before the temple engulfed in flames.

A roaring orange glow consumed the building. Tendril-like flames flickered as they devoured everything. The heat of the blaze radiated against his skin, the glow making the beads of sweat glisten on his skin and his tears burn as they welled in his eyes.

His heart sank into his stomach. He blinked heavily, heavy tears falling past his lashes and trailing down his cheeks. His whole body trembled, his stomach tense and his chest aching.

“Mum!” he screamed, shoving aside the door and sprinting into the burning temple. “Laura! Cora!”

He sprinted through the fire, bursting into the large living space. The blazing heat burnt his skin. He blinked his eyes, trying to clear the tears that streaked his vision. He squinted against the glare of the fire, his eyes falling upon the figure in the centre of his room.

Her long brown hair hung in the air, tousled by the slight breeze. Her hand lay against the floor, streams of blood coursing her pale skin and pooling around her. Her body was arched backwards, suspended as she rested back against the ebony-black spear that impaled her. Blood dripped from her nose and her parted lips, her pale skin lit by the roaring fire. Her dark eyes stared blankly into oblivion, glassy and unseeing.

He tied to scream for her, but the air was torn from his lungs.

He turned, his eyes falling upon the two figures huddled together by the far wall. Their bodies laid still beneath the rubble. Laura’s body was arched over Cora, shielding her little sister. Her arm was stained red and blood coursed from the gash in her head. Her jade eyes stared at him, clouded over.

From somewhere among the roaring fire, he heard a pained wheeze. A figure emerged from behind the curtain of wavering flames. Their bloody nails clawed at the tiles as they dragged their unmoving body behind them.

Derek charged forward, looping his arms around the man’s chest and dragging him towards the doors.

Fire lashed at his bare arms. He cried out in pain as the fire seared his flesh. He felt it blister, burning pain coursing through his veins. Rivulets of blood streamed down his arms as he dragged his uncle into the cool darkness of the tunnel. He collapsed against the dirt, tears streaming down his face as he watched the fire burn; destroying everything.

 

 

He woke with a start, bolting upright and gasping for air.

“Take a deep breath,” a familiar voice said soothingly. “Just take a moment and calm down.”

His shoulders rose and fell as he heaved in deep breaths. He turned, looking at the woman who knelt by his side. Her long brown hair cascaded over her shoulders, her jade-green eyes soft as she looked at him. Her expression was kind and caring, the way he had always remembered it to be. She was dressing in a flowing black dress, fastened with a beaded belt around her slender waist. A small silver triskelion pendant hung from a chain, resting against her collarbone and glinting as it caught the light of the fireplace.

“Laura?” Derek muttered. “How—?"

She nodded towards his hands. “Clearly you summoned me without realising.”

Derek looked down, unfurling his fist to find a small grey triskellion medallion resting in the palm of his hand. It was the only thing that had survived the fire—the only thing Derek had found among the ruins.

He shook his head, trying to clear the memory form his mind. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s alright,” Laura said softly. “Is everything okay?”

“No,” Derek admitted; he had never been able to lie to his sister.

“Is this about Stiles?” Laura prompted.

“Partially,” Derek answered.

He sat upright, swinging his legs over the edge of the couch he had fallen asleep on and slumping back against the cushions.

“I have no idea what I’m doing,” he admitted. “And I’m so scared I’m going to lose him like I lost you.”

Laura straightened her back and sat down next to her little brother.

“I was never meant to have this power,” Derek muttered, pressing the balls of his hands against his eyes. “You were meant to rule the Underworld, not me.”

“You seem to be doing a pretty good job in my place,” Laura said reassuringly.

Derek scoffed. “I’m the God of Death, trying to save a life. How can you say that I am doing a good job?”

“Because part of the job is knowing when people are meant to die and knowing that sometimes people are taken before their time,” Laura explained. “You are doing the right thing; trying to save someone who shouldn’t die yet.”

“It wasn’t your time either,” Derek muttered, his chest aching.

“There was nothing you could do,” Laura said softly. “Some things are just inevitable.”

His chest aches as a sickening wave of guilt settled on him.

“I should have been there,” he scolded himself, fighting back the tears that welled in his eyes. “I should have stopped it. I should have saved you.”

“Derek, there was nothing you could have done. If you had been there, you would have died with us.” She paused for a moment. “I want you to know that I am so proud of you, and Mum is too. You are so much stronger than you think you are.”

Derek shook his head. “I’m not.”

“Every day, you hold your head high and fight on. That takes a kind of strength that not many people have,” Laura pointed out.

Derek ran his hands through his hair. “I’m not strong. Stiles is dying and I don’t know what I’m doing. How am I meant to help him when I have no idea what I’m doing?”

“Keep trying,” Laura said encouragingly.

“Argent’s magic didn’t help,” Derek explained, frustration wearing his voice thin. “What good are herbs and roots going to do when heavenly powers can’t heal him?”

“I think you need to remind yourself that he is a fighter too,” Laura said, levelling her pale eyes with her brother. “Stiles, like you, has been through a lot and lost a lot. And yet, he’s still here. Still fighting. Don’t underestimate his strength.”

Derek bowed his head, his unfocused eyes following the drifting streams of colour on the marble tiles.

“We’ll work this out,” Laura said softly. “Just do what you can for now. Mum and I will watch over the two of you, and we will protect him when you cannot.”

“Thank you,” Derek whispered.

Laura rose from the couch and leant forward, pressing a soft kiss to Derek’s forehead. He felt a chill run up his spine, ice flooding his veins at her ghostly touch. She levelled her gaze with his.

“You are never alone,” she said. A sweet smile lifted the corners of Laura’s lips as she turned towards the fireplace. The billowing fabric of her dress blew away to wisps of smoke, her image blurring until she vanished among the glow of the fire.

Derek let out a heavy sigh, wiping away his falling tears with the back of his hand. He rose to his feet, making his way over to the fireplace. He set the grey medallion inside the small wooden box atop the mantle. He shut the lid, running his fingers across the smooth grains of the mahogany.

He heard a quiet whimper and turned, making his way towards the bedroom. His heart skipped a beat as he saw Stiles try to push himself up onto his elbows.

The boy winced at the effort, letting out a weak grunt. His arms shook as he tried to steady himself. He fell back weakly against the pillows, heaving in deep breaths.

Derek hurried over to his side.

“Where am I?” Stiles muttered, his dark eyes unfocused as he tried to look at Derek.

“You are in the Underworld,” Derek answered honestly, brushing his hair out of his face again.

Stiles swallowed hard. “Am I dead?”                           

“No,” Derek replied. “And I promise, I am going to do everything in my power to keep it that way.”

“My father?” Stiles gasped.

“Argent has told him you are alive and that you are in my care,” Derek explained as he poured a glass of water from a gold pitcher—the water he had gathered from the Surface. He cupped the back of Stiles’ head, steadying him as he lifted the glass to Stiles’ lips. He quickly explained it was from the Surface, but Stiles didn’t need convincing; he trusted Derek.

Stiles parted his trembling lips and gulped down the cool water, letting out a sigh of relief as he licked his chapped lips.

Derek carefully laid him back against the pillows. He pulled the blanket up over Stiles’ slender shoulder, watching as he melted into the warmth and comfort of the sheets.

Stiles blinked heavily, struggling to stay awake. His eyes were unfocused as he looked at Derek, his dark eyes full of curiosity. He wanted to say something, but the words never came out. He let his eyes flutter shut, his voice week and lethargic as sleep began to take its hold as he asked, “Will you stay with me?”

“Of course,” Derek whispered.

He stayed there, watching as the boy’s chest rose and fell with steady breaths.


	4. IV

Days passed, and Derek watched as Stiles began to regain his strength little by little. Every day, he would prepare the paste and lather it over Stiles’ ankle, clearing away the blood and oozing black venom. And every day, Derek made his way to the Surface, gathering food, water and ingredients for medicine. Whenever he would return, he would often find Stiles sitting upright in bed, reading one of the many books that lay scattered around the room or sitting before the fireplace, wrapped in blankets. Occasionally, he would find Stiles lying on the couch, buried under piles of blankets and fast asleep.

On days like those, Derek did his best not to wake Stiles.

He was still ghostly pale, his features sunken, but a soft pink colouring had slowly returned to his cheeks. Clarity had returned to his dark eyes and he was able to hold a conversation, but he was still weak and slept for most of the day. Derek would watch as his hands trembled every time he reached for a glass of water or a bowl of food that Derek offered him.

He tried his best to treat the wound. The swelling had died down and the bruises had healed, but the wound was still open and weeping, and the veins around the bite still pulsed black.

One day, Stiles found himself strong enough to hobble to of his room and over to the large, open space of the lounge room while Derek was out. He returned to find Stiles standing before the fire, staring into the glowing haze.

Derek opened his mouth to ask if he was alright when a thundering boom split the air.

Stiles yelped, flinching away from the large door near the fireplace.

Another boom echoed through the room, the hinges rattling and the bolt groaning against the strain.

Stiles shoulder rose and fell as he drew in panicked breaths, staggering away from the door.

Derek turned his glare on the door, his eyes burning bright red. There was a sad whimper beyond the door as the hounds retreated.

“What was that?” Stiles whimpered.

“Hellhounds,” Derek answered shortly.

“Are they here for me?” Stiles asked.

“Yes,” Derek said honestly.

Stiles’ eyes were still focused on the door. “Are they the reason I can’t leave?”

“You can leave any time you want,” Derek answered. “I just suggest you don’t.”

“What would happen if I did leave?” Stiles asked.

“The hellhounds would hunt you down and take your soul,” Derek replied. “Once the poison’s gone from your system and you’ve healed, you’ll be able to leave. They won’t bother you then.”

Stiles nodded.

He winced as pain coursed through his veins. His legs weakened and he fell to his knees, catching himself before he collapsed on the floor.

He held up a hand, stopping Derek as the man ran to his side.

“I’m fine,” he said dismissively.

The hellhounds returned, snapping and snarling as they threw their weight against the door.

Stiles’ eyes flew open wide. His breath caught in his throat as he stared at the door, scared that they’d break through at any second.

“Enough!” Derek bellowed.

The hounds fell silent again.

Derek turned his gaze to Stiles, his eyes fading back to their natural hue. “Are you sure you’re alright?”

“I’m fine,” Stiles repeated. He pushed himself upright and turned his back to Derek, shuffling across the tiles so that he sat in front of one of the flowerpots beside the fire. He pulled the blanket tight around his shoulders as he looked at the withering plant.

A blanket of silence settled between the two of them. Derek stayed where he was, watching Stiles with curiosity.

“Stop looking at me like that,” Stiles said sharply.

“Like what?” Derek asked.

“Like you want to ask me a question but you are too scared to,” Stiles answered. “It’s infuriating. Just ask what you want to ask.”

“You trust me, why?”

“Because I have no reason not to,” Stiles answered, his back still turned to Derek.

Derek stepped down into the descended living room, crossing over to Stiles’ side. “Are you not afraid of my darkness?”

“No,” Stiles replied. He glanced over his shoulder at Derek, the firelight casting dark shadows across his face. His eyes were devoid of emotion as he said, “You haven’t seen mine yet.”

Stiles turned back to the plant, tilting his head as he looked at it with curiosity.

“I find it hard to believe you have any darkness in you,” Derek said.

“We all do,” Stiles replied. “There is a fight inside all of us, a war between the light and the darkness. The darkest shadows are cast by the brightest light, and those that seem to be made of light are often the ones hiding the darkest shadows.”

Stiles’ voice darkened, his eyes lighting up with a golden glow as the plant began to wither. The stalk shrivelled and curled in on itself, the leaves darkening to lifeless husks that fell to the ground.

Stiles released his grip on the plant, staring at the lifeless, ashy skeleton.

“But—” he continued, his voice softening as he reached out to brush his fingertips against the stalk. Streams of gold flowed through the cracks like colour through marble. The stalk straightened, leaves stretching outwards as the small tree grew. Small buds blossomed, bursting open as fruit ripened. An apple hung from one of the branches, the skin coloured red and green—the strange mix of the Underworld’s corruption and Stiles’ heavenly powers. “My mother used to always tell me that the flower that blooms in adversity is the most rare and beautiful of all.”

Stiles glanced over his shoulder at Derek, his golden eyes dimming back to their natural, intoxicating hue. “Do you understand what I’m saying?”

Derek nodded. He understood all too well; he was a being of shadows, hiding the light—the light that he had dimmed since his family’s death. And Stiles was the being of light, hiding the dark shadows. They were both beings of Life and Death, the ones who chose the fate of others. But they were also the flowers, the ones who fought to bloom; to flourish in a world that sought to destroy them.

 

 

John sat beneath the blossoming tree, watching as the pale buds burst to life. Other flowers broke away from the tree, letting the petals catch the breeze and dance across the sky.

One of the flowers fell from the overhead branch, drifting down into John’s lap.

He gently picked it up, cupping the delicate flower in his hands. He brushed the ball of his thumb across the velvety-soft petals, feeling a sense of warmth fill him. A weak smile lit his weary face as he looked down at the flower.

But it didn’t last.

The flower began to wilt in his hands. The pale petals shrivelled and darkened like a piece of parchment set on fire.

The smile fell from his face, the warmth in his chest faded to a cold, heavy weight. Rage flowed through him as he rose to his feet and let the dying flower fall to the ground.

 

 

Derek felt her arrival. The air split with a thundering bang, light and sparks erupting as she seemed to appear out of thin air.

“Hello, Allison,” Derek greeted, not looking up from his book.

“How is he?” Allison – goddess of the hunt – asked, her dark eyes searching the open space for any sign of Stiles.

“Recovering,” Derek answered shortly. “He’s sleeping right now.”

“M-hm,” Allison hummed, turning her eyes on Derek.

“Is there a reason you are here, or do you just wish to be in my company?” Derek asked, setting aside his book.

“I’ve come to deliver a message,” she announced.

“Then deliver it,” Derek insisted.

“His father wishes for him to return to the Surface.”

Derek shook his head. “He cannot. Not yet. He is not strong enough and the hell hounds still have his scent.”

“You don’t understand,” Allison said, her expression softening as her dark eyes filled with a glint of panic. “His father is furious. He’s ready to wage war on you.”

“Then let him,” Derek said firmly. “Because I will not let Stiles leave here until he is well enough to leave. I will not send him to his death.”

“Derek,” Allison said pleadingly. “The crops are dying without Stiles’ attention. John just wants to keep his son safe.”

“And the safest place for him is here,” Derek insisted. “Your father agrees with me.”

“But his does not.”

Derek drew in a deep breath and rose to his feet, towering over Allison. “I know that the Gods don’t trust me. And why should they? After all, I am the God of Death.”

Allison opened her mouth to say something, but Derek interrupted. “I understand that the crops are withering without him, but that is only until he gets better. If I let him leave and he dies, then what will happen to the crops?”

“You’re really willing to wage war over this?”

“Over Stiles?” Derek corrected. “Yes.”

Allison dropped her gaze, her eyes glistening with tears. She drew in a deep breath and nodded. “So be it.”

Derek took a step back, sitting down on the couch and picking up his book again. “And please tell John that the next time he has a message for me, he can deliver it in person.”

A glowing light appeared around her as she cast one last worried glance at Derek. “I just hope you know what you’re getting yourself into.”


	5. V

It was the booming echo of a bark that startled Derek awake. He leapt to his feet, the darkness trailing behind him like a cape as he ran for the gates.

“Cerberus,” he called, his voice edged with fear.

He threw open the doors with a thundering boom, sprinting through the tunnelling darkness. Torches roared to life as he passed, the fire lighting the darkness.

Derek skidded to a halt when he saw the hound on his back, belly exposed and hind legs kicking slightly. His heads laid back on the ground, pink tongues hanging out as his mouths were pulled back in delighted grins.

A figure knelt beside Cerberus, rubbing his belly.

Derek let out an exaggerated sigh and rolled his eyes.

“Some guard dog you are,” he scoffed.

The person looked up at him, smiling sweetly.

It took Derek a moment to recognise him. His hair was a tousled mess, but it looked more refined than scruffy. His pale cheeks were coloured by a rosy pink blush and the mischievous sparkle lit his eyes. He was dressed in a black tunic that was embroidered with silver leaves around the collar and pulled tight around his waist by a thin black cord. What Derek had initially thought was a coat was in fact a charcoal grey knitted blanket draped around his shoulders. Ornate cuffs and coils of golden leaves covered his bare arms, matching the golden circlet of leaves that sat on his head.

Stiles.

It took Derek a second to regain his senses.

Stiles looked down at himself, his face flushed with embarrassment. “I’m sorry, they were the only clothes I could find.”

“It’s alright,” Derek assured him.

Cerberus rolled over onto his side, hurrying over to Derek’s side.

Derek crouched before the hound, patting him and talking softly to him.

Cerberus strained his neck’s reaching up as he licked at Derek’s face making the man chuckle as he gently pushed the hound away.

Derek glanced up at Stiles, watching as a sweet smile played across his lips. His eyes seemed to sparkle as he looked at Derek with an expression of happiness and curiosity.

“It’s dangerous for you to be out here,” Derek said softly.

“I know,” Stiles replied. “I just got a little lonely and I didn’t want to wake you.”

Derek couldn’t help but smile. He bowed his head, hiding the soft blush that coloured his cheeks.

The moment was shattered as a deep growl rolled through the cavern.

Derek bolted upright.

“Stiles, get behind me,” Derek said, his eyes glowing red.

Stiles didn’t argue. He staggered to his feet and hurried over to Derek’s side, pressing up against the man’s back as Derek shielded him from the approaching figure.

It looked like a man, engulfed in wavering golden flames. Its eyes glowed the same radiant yellow, it’s jaw hanging open to expose its sharp teeth. Its skin was scorched and covered in smears of grey ash, its veins glowing like boiling magma. A red glow emanated from its sternum as if the lava that flooded in its veins flowed from its core. It let out a low growl as it sauntered forwards, its fierce glare focused on Stiles.

Cerberus straightened, his shackles rising as he turned to face the hellhound. He stood between the hellhound and Derek, letting out a deep growl.

“Inside, now,” Derek said, gently backing up towards the gates.

Stiles did as he was told, hurrying back through the gates and into the foyer lined with marble columns. He stumbled as he ran into the open space of the lounge room and turned back to the doors.

Searing pain tore up his leg. He cried out as he dropped to his hands and knees. He heaved in heavy breaths, trying to push away the pain. He rolled onto his side, looking down at his leg. His ankle ached, tears falling down his cheeks. The bandage strapped around his ankle was stained black, brown and red.

His vision began to blur, his heartbeat hammering in his ears. His lungs burnt as his breath played across his lips.

From somewhere beyond his thundering pulse, he heard Derek call his name.

His eyes fluttered shut as he collapsed against the floor, the tiles giving way as he fell into oblivion.

Derek sprinted over to Stiles’ side, lifting the boy’s limp body into his lap. He gently brushed aside Stiles’ tousled hair, talking softly to him. He lifted Stiles off the floor and carried him over to the couch, laying him down before turning his attention to his ankle.

He swallowed hard, his gut twisting as he looked at the wound. Stiles’ pale skin had been tainted by the poison making it look like grey ash. Blood and black ooze streamed from the wound, the surrounding flesh blistered and burnt.

“What do I do?” Derek muttered to himself. “What do I do?”

He felt hot tears prickle his eyes, his vision streaked as panic settled into his chest. He stumbled away from the couch and ran to the mantle, pushing open the lid of the old mahogany box that sat atop the fireplace. He grabbed the small stone disc out of the box, closing his eyes as he tried to focus.

A soft breeze rolled across his skin.

Derek opened his eyes, turning to look at the woman who stood across the room.

She was still as beautiful and graceful as she had been the last time she had seen him, her olive skin covered in light freckles and her eyes as warm and comforting as they had always been.

“I don’t know what to do,” Derek admitted, unable to stop the tears the streamed down his face. “Please, I can’t let him die.”

She gave a small nod and turned to the couch, crouching down beside the boy.

“Take a deep breath and tell me what happened,” Talia said softly.

Derek drew in a deep breath, blinking the tears from his eyes as he said, “He was bitten by a snake. Argent tried to heal him, but his powers only made it worse. I’ve been using the herbs and roots that you would use on Laura and I when we were bitten, and it was working for a while. But he just collapsed, and it is so much worse than it was before. I don’t know what to do.”

Talia nodded thoughtfully. “Okay, first you need to clean the wound.”

Derek hurried into the kitchen and grabbed the golden pitcher full of water from the Surface. He hurried over to Stiles’ side, pouring the water into a bowl and dampening a towel. He gently wiped the blood and poison away from the wound, flinching when Stiles gasped.

“The venom is corrupted by dark magic,” Talia explained. “It kills the person it bites by corrupting the heavenly magic that flows through them. Trying to heal with heavenly powers would only strengthen the dark magic. If you want to help him, you have to draw the dark magic out of him then heal the snake bite with the remedy you’ve been using.”

“How do I get it out of him?” Derek asked.

“Call it to you,” Talia instructed. “You are the Lord of Darkness, it must obey you. You are more powerful than you think.”

“I’m still a child,” Derek objected.

“You are my son,” Talia said proudly.

Derek dropped his gaze, drawing in a deep breath. He let his eyes fall shut as he focused, holding his hand over Stiles’ ankle. He felt his power flood his veins, calling towards the darkness.

He heard Stiles draw in a sharp breath, squeezing his eyes shut tighter as he tried to focus. He tried to imagine the darkness being drawn out of Stiles’ veins.

He heard Stiles release the breath he was holding. He blinked his eyes open, looking down at the boy’s ankle. The ashy grey skin was now red and blistered, his veins no longer pulsing black.

Derek let out a sigh of relief, letting his body sag as he sat down on the floor.

“I knew you could do it,” his mother whispered, leaning forward to press a soft kiss to the crown of his forehead.

“I’m not ready for this, mum,” Derek admitted.

Talia smiled and gently toyed his hair the way she would when he was younger. “Yes, you are. I just left behind a legacy that you’re trying to follow. You need to stop trying to be me, and start being yourself.”

“What if I’m not good enough?” Derek asked.

“There is no question about it; you are good enough,” Talia said firmly. She gently cupped his cheek, her touch cold. She leant forward and pressed another soft kiss to his forehead before turning towards the fireplace. The light of the fire blurred her image into shadows, letting her figure fade into wisps of smoke.

Stiles drew in a shuddering breath, drawing Derek’s attention back to him. He slowly blinked his eyes open.

“Derek?” he rasped.

“You’re okay,” Derek reassured him, reached forward across the couch to gently brush aside the strands of hair that clung to his forehead.

“Will you stay with me?” Stiles asked weakly.

A soft smile lifted the corners of Derek’s lips as he said, “Of course.”

Stiles reached out, taking Derek’s other hand in his. He let his eyes fall shut, sighing as he drifted off to sleep.

Derek lowered himself onto the floor, leaning against the couch. His eyes drifted to where he held Stiles’ hand, gently brushing the ball of his hand across the back of the boy’s trembling hand.

 

 

“No,” Derek objected, but he knew his argument fell on deaf ears.

Cerberus let out a huff as he made his way over to the couch, resting his heads on Stiles’ lap.

Stiles let out a soft chuck and gently patted the beast’s heads, watching as his mouth pulled back in an innocent grin as he craned each head towards Stiles’ hand.

“You can stay for a little while,” Stiles said, trying to strike up a compromise. “Bu then you have to go back on guard, okay?”

Cerberus let out a soft whimper before nodding.

Derek threw his hands up, exasperated. “Unbelievable,” he muttered under his breath, grabbing his coat from the back of a small chair where he had thrown it earlier. “My own dog…”

Cerberus let out gruff snort.

“Hey,” Stiles said warningly. “Be nice.”

Cerberus rose to his feet, prancing over to Derek’s side and snuggling up to him.

“I love you too,” Derek said, rubbing his back.

He looked up at Stiles, watching as the young man stared into the wavering flames of the fire.

“Before I go,” Derek started, stepping over to the mantle above the fireplace. He picked up the wooden box and brought it over to Stiles. He sat next to Stiles and opened the lid to show him the grey triskelion medallion inside. “It’s a family heirloom that allows us to call upon the souls in the Underworld. Sometimes I use it to talk to my family.”

“What happened?” Stiles asked before he could stop himself.

The words tore thought him, knocking the air from his lungs. He swallowed hard against the rising lump in his throat, his vision blurred by tears. He dropped his gaze and turned away from Stiles, blinking back his tears.

“I’m sorry,” Stiles said softly. “I didn’t mean to pry. You don’t have to answer.”

His voice was quiet as he said, “I went to the Surface one day, just to get away from everything, and when I returned, everything was on fire. I ran inside to try and find my family, but they… they were all dead. The only person who survived the fire was my uncle, Peter. I dragged him from the fire and healed his burns. And as the flames died, I realised there was something different about me. I had inherited my mother’s powers… and her role as the God of the Underworld.”

Derek drew in a deep breath, looking down at the medallion in the box. “This was the only thing that survived the fire.”

He took the medallion out of the box, holding it out to Stiles.

“I know what it’s like to get lonely down here, but you don’t have to be alone,” Derek said softly.

Stiles took the medallion, feeling the cold grey stone rest in the palms of his hands.

“If you want to talk to someone, just try and focus on them, on a memory or a detail, and it’ll call them to you,” Derek explained.

Stiles stared down at the medallion, speechless.

Derek shifted slightly, feeling the awkward tension between them. He straightened his back, setting the charred mahogany box aside as he swung the billowing cape over his broad shoulders and fastened it in place.

“I’ll be back from Olympus as soon as I can,” he told Stiles, heading for the large doors. He stopped across the room, turning back to Stiles. “Remember, everything in the gold dishes-”

“–are from the Surface World and everything in the silver dishes are from the Underworld, so only eat and drink from the gold dishes,” Stiles finished, reciting what Derek had told him so many times. He flashed a kind smile.

Derek couldn’t help but smile back. He pointed at Cerberus. “You had better take good care him.”

Cerberus curled up on the floor, resting himself back against Stiles’ legs.

Stiles leant forward, gently patting the hound before laying back against the couch cushions and pulling the blanket tight around his shoulders.

There was a rush of wind as Derek left.

Stiles let his mind wander, staring into the wavering flames of the crackling fire. A thought struck him. He looked down at the medallion in his hand.

He closed his eyes and tried to remember her; it was so long ago, he’d been so young when he died, and the memories were fuzzy. He tried to remember her laugh, her soft voice as she read stories to him. He remembered the way the golden circlet sat atop her head, pins with glittering gems attached to them woven into her long brown hair. He remembered the way her dress billowed in the breeze, the light catching the golden embroidery along the hem. He remembered how warm her hand was as he would hold it, letting her guide him through the fields of golden wheat.

A cool breeze rolled through the room.

Stiles opened his eyes, looking at the woman who stood by the fireplace.

Her skin seemed to glow in the light of the fire. Her long brown hair was pulled back from her face, twisted into a braid that was wrapped around her head like a crown. A few stray strands hung around her face, brushing against her rosy cheeks. She wore a faded blue dress, the top embroidered with small flowers and white lace. The embroidery drifted down in streaks into the rippling fabric of the skirt.

Stiles felt a rush of warmth flow through him, his heart fluttering as he looked at her. Tears welled in his eyes as he fought back his sobs, his voice strained as he swallowed hard against the rising lump in his throat.

“Hello, mum.”


	6. VI

Derek sat on the small chair by the couch, leaning forward as he rested his head in his hands.

The thundering boom announced her presence as Allison stepped forward, her eyes darkened with sorrow and her expression twisted by fear and pity. She drew in short breaths, trying to fight her tears. “His father…”

“It’s okay,” Derek said quietly. “You don’t have to say it. I know.”

Stiles straightened, looking from Allison to Derek. “What’s going on?”

Allison swallowed hard. “Your father has waged war against the Underworld.”

Stiles’ eyes flew open wide. “What?” he gasped. “No, he can’t…”

“He can,” Derek said quietly. “And he has.”

He rose from his seat, slowly walking towards the door.

“You’re going to fight him?” Stiles rasped, torn between the two.

“No,” Derek admitted. “I take full responsibility for the decisions that have led to this. I go willingly, alone, and without resistance.”

“You can’t,” Stiles started, fighting back tears.

“I must,” Derek replied.

“No,” Stiles muttered, shaking his head. “No, no, no.”

He met Stiles’ gaze, his aventurine eyes swirling with emotion as he said, “I am willing to die if it means that you are safe.”

He didn’t grab his cape, nor draw the shadows into armour. He wore only his clothes as the large doors opened and he made his way through the dark tunnel. He held his head high, ignoring the sound of Stiles’ cries as they trailed through the shadows, crying out for him.

Tears of rage fell down Stiles’ cheeks. He staggered to his feet, stumbling over to the fire side. He reached for the small plant that grew there, plucking the red and green apple that hung from the branch. He lifted himself onto his feet, his legs pedalling beneath him as he ran for the tunnel. He collapsed against the cavern walls, the damp earth soaking his shirt. The soft cotton clung to his frail body as he forced himself to keep going, his ankle throbbing in protest. He grimaced, tears streaking down his cheeks as he pushed himself further.

He knew Derek wouldn’t offer a fight; he had to get there before his father killed him.

He dug his bare feet into the earth, forcing himself to sprint as he ran through the seemingly endless darkness. He stumbled and fell to the ground, his hands and knees sinking into the mud. He pushed himself upright, grabbing the apple as he ran.

A glimpse of light broke through the darkness as he sprinted out into the light of day.

Heavy grey clouds filled the sky, rain crashing against the earth and soaking him through. The winds lashed at him as he staggered forward, squinting against the pouring rain. He could make out a lone figure standing at the edge of a field of wheat, showing no resistance to the army that charged towards him.

“Derek,” Stiles gasped.

He pushed himself away from the craggy bluffs of the mountain face, running into the open field. He stumbled past Derek, ignoring the man’s protests as he stood defiantly between Derek and his father’s army.

Stiles slid to a stop, standing tall as the wave of armed forces raced towards him. Horses’ hooves thumped the earth, the pounding beat rolling through Stiles as he stood still.

His heart hammered against his ribs as he kept his gaze focused on the figure at the front; his father.

The advancing army slowed to a halt as John’s eyes fell on his son.

Stiles tightened his grip on the apple, lifting it towards his mouth.

“Stiles, no!” Derek screamed, sprinting towards him.

But he was too slow.

Stiles bit into the apple, letting the bitter juice flood his mouth, the crunchy flesh falling against his tongue.

Derek stumbled to a halt, stopping as he stared at the boy, his eyes wide with shock.

Stiles’ father stepped forward, his face mirroring Derek’s confusion.

“Stiles,” he said, struggling to find his voice. “Why would you…?”

“I’ve made my choice,” Stiles said.

“Stiles, you have no idea what you’ve just done,” Derek rasped.

“I grew this apple myself,” Stiles pointed out. “I know exactly what I’m doing. I’m putting an end to all of this.” He turned to face his father. “I know you’re trying to protect me, I know you feel bad about what happened to mum, but none of that is Derek’s fault. He has done nothing but protect me. He saved my life.”

John shook his head and muttered, “You’re as stubborn as your mother.”

“I prefer ‘defiant’,” Stiles replied with a smile.

There was a thundering boom as Chris appeared, sparks of electricity dancing over him.

“Argent, please, tell me there’s some way to undo this,” Derek pleaded.

Chris shook his head. “I’m sorry, but the rules are the rules. Stiles is bound to the Underworld.”

“Only partially,” Stiles corrected. He tossed the apple to Chris. “It was grown in the Underworld but with heavenly magic, making it an amalgamation of the two Worlds. Which means I can roam both, as long as I split my time evenly between the two.”

Chris couldn’t help but smile with pride.

“He’s right,” he announced. He turned his clear eyes to John. “Your son is a smart man.”

“Something else I get from my mother,” Stiles said, a mischievous smile lifting the corners of his lips as he winked in his father’s direction. He turned and reached for a stalk of wheat. “That, among other things.”

He felt his power flow through him, his eyes glowing as streams of golden light seeped into the ground. The wilting crops flourished, filling the fields with golden wheat. The open stretches of grass burst to life, bursts of colour spread across the lush green as the wild flowers bloomed. The leaves returned to the trees, lush fruit hanging from the branches.

Stiles let out a weak sigh, his eyes fading to their natural hue.

His body weakened as he fell back into Derek’s strong arms.

The man steadied him as Stiles tried to regain his senses.

Stiles looked up at Chris, watching as a kind smile spread across the man’s weary face.

“Stiles Stilinski; God of Spring,” he paused for a second before adding, “and King of the Underworld.”


	7. VII

Olympus was quite different to the Underworld. The floors were lined with glossy white marble tiles, the hallways and rooms framed by towering columns. A long table stretched the length of the large room, rows of high-backed chairs lined down each side. When a meeting of the Gods is called, the seats would be full, but today it was empty. Argent stood at the head of the table. Deucalion, Allison and John stood next to him, talking quietly to each other.

Derek made his way along the table, over to the other gods.

“You summoned me?” Derek called to them.

“Oh good, you’re here,” Chris said, looking up as Derek approached. “We need to talk.”

“What about?”

“The snake that bit Stiles,” John said. “We have reason to believe it was god-sent.”

“God-sent?” Derek repeated back to him, unable to hide his shock. “Who would ever want to hurt Stiles?”

“That’s why we needed to talk to you,” Chris said. “Do you know anyone who would want to hurt Stiles?”

“No,” Derek answered.

“Did you send the snake?” John asked bluntly.

“John,” Chris scolded.

“Did you send the snake?” John repeated.

“No.”

John fixed his glare on Derek. “Did you have him bitten so that he would be trapped in the Underworld?”

“I would never force someone to live the hellish misery I do,” Derek shouted.

Derek froze. He drew in a deep breath, trying to calm himself.

A thought struck him.

“My mother said that the venom was infused with dark magic,” he explained. “That’s why your magic didn’t work when you tried to heal him.”

“Dark magic?” Allison repeated back to him. “But who would…?”

Derek didn’t hear what she said; a chill ran up his spine, a sense of disturbance settling in his gut.

“Derek?” Chris said softly.

“Something’s happened,” the man muttered. “Something’s wrong.”

“What do you mean?” Chris asked.

“Something’s happening in the Underworld,” Derek explained. “I have to go.”

He turned, the darkness around him folding in on itself as he teleported out of Olympus.

Chris took a step back, letting the blazing light consume him as he teleported. John and Deucalion followed after him.

 

 

Stiles dragged his feet into the centre of the large room, his hair still tousled by sleep—Derek had left for Olympus a short while ago, leaving him alone in the Underworld.

“Hello, Stiles,” a voice called from the darkness.

Stiles spun around, his eyes falling on the man who clung to the shadows.

“Peter,” he muttered. He swallowed hard, trying to calm his racing heartbeat. “If you’re looking for Derek, he’s in Olympus.”

“I know,” the man replied.

Peter stood among the darkness, his cold eyes focused on Stiles.

“You know,” he started slowly, his deep voice sending chills through Stiles’ veins. “I was meant to inherit the throne of the Underworld. Then my sister had children, and I was kicked aside.”

He began to move around the room, circling where Stiles stood by the couch.

“I learnt very quickly, that if I ever wanted the power that was rightfully mine…” He crossed over to the large wooden door, coiling his fingers around the handle of the heavy iron bar that held it shut. “…I’d have to take it for myself.”

He shoved the bolt back with a loud thump.

A wave of realisation crashed over Stiles. “You… You started the fire. You killed your own family.”

“I am the God of betrayal,” Peter said smugly. A wicked grin lifted the corners of his mouth as he took a step towards Stiles.

Stiles wanted to step back, to put as much distance between him and Peter as he could, but it felt as if his body had turned to stone.

“I wanted the power I was rightfully owed, so I took it. I destroyed the lineage. I put a spear through my sister’s chest. But it wasn’t until after I set the fire that I realised Derek wasn’t there,” Peter explained. “I couldn’t escape and have the blame pointed at me, so I made it look like I was attacked too. When Derek pulled me from the fire, I knew he would inherit his mother’s power. All I had to do was destroy him and take what’s mine.”

Peter held his hands behind his back as he sauntered forward.

“If you want to destroy someone, you take away everything they hold dear,” he mused. “So, I sent the viper.”

“Why me?” Stiles asked.

Peter rolled his eyes. “Is it really not obvious?” When Stiles didn’t answer, he said, “Because he only ever had eyes for you.”

He took another step forward, making Stiles’ heart race. His blood hammered in his ears as he kept his eyes locked on Peter’s.

“He lost his father, his mother, and his sisters,” Peter said lowly, taking another step forward and closing the distance between them. “Imagine how distraught he’d be if he lost you too.”

Stiles opened his mouth to say something when he caught a glimpse of light reflecting off the ebony blade that appeared in the man’s hand.

Peter slammed it into Stiles’ gut.

The boy gasped as pain tore through his body.

Peter shoved it deeper, twisting the dagger and letting the blade tear at his flesh.

Stiles doubled over, collapsing to his knees as his trembling hands felt for the dagger. He fell forward, bracing his weight on one hand as he gasped for breath. Hot tears blurred his vision as he looked up at Peter, eyes wide with shock.

“I will have what is mine,” Peter said with finality, taking a step away from the boy.

Stiles’ shock melted away as burning rage fuelled his body.

“You may be the God of corruption and betrayal,” he uttered, ignoring the tears that fell down his cheeks. “But I’m one people pray to for revenge.”

Stiles threw his hand forward, the force of his power hurling Peter across the room. His back struck the wall, making him cry out in pain as he dropped to the ground. He hit the tiles with a heavy thud, wheezing as the air was knocked from his lungs. He turned to look at Stiles, his eyes were wide with fear as he stared at the young man.

Stiles’ eyes glowed gold as he rose to his feet. He stood proud, unphased by the dagger in his gut. Blood dripped down the front of his robe, dripping onto the floor as he glared at Peter.

“You are not the God of the Underworld,” he said, his voice cold and devoid of emotion. “But I’m the king. So, bow before your king.”

There was a deafening crash as the marble tiles shattered. Thick vines and roots burst through the floor and the walls, coiling around Peter’s arms and legs and pulling him up onto his knees.

Peter cried out as the vines tightened around his arms. He strained, trying to pull free, but his binds held strong.

Stiles could feel his powers wavering, the searing agony flooding his veins. He felt his legs begin to waver and darkness creep into his vision.

The door slammed open, the sounds of snarling and growling growing louder, closer.

His legs collapsed beneath him, the glow in his eyes fading as he fell backwards. He let his head lull to the side, staring blankly across the lounge room.

He watched as the hellhounds stalked forward, their glowing eyes shifting between shades of yellow and red as they locked their sights on Stiles.

There was a rush of wind as the flames from the fireplace burst forward, morphing into the figure of a wolf. The beast leapt across the loungeroom, arching over Stiles and growling as it faced off against the hellhounds.

Stiles heard Peter mutter something, his voice laced with fear.

The wolf snarled, letting out a fierce bark that made the demons shrivelled in fear.

One by one, the hellhounds retreated into the darkness of the Underworld.

The thundering boom split their air, a flash of light filling the room.

The wolf took a step back, letting another figure rush to Stiles’ side.

Stiles was limp in his arm as Derek lifted him off the ground. He gulped down shallow breaths, his unfocused dark eyes staring up at Derek.

Derek pressed his hand to Stiles’ stomach, his eyes glowing red as he tried to heal the wound. The edges of flesh began to stitch themselves together.

“Easy,” Derek encouraged as he helped Stiles sit upright.

Stiles slumped against Derek’s shoulder, resting his face against the curve of his neck and breathing in his scent—the smell of fire, earth, and petrichor. Stiles’ eyes drifted across to the wolf, watching as the hound morphed back into the figure of a woman. Her hair fell over her shoulders, a black cape cascading down her back.

“Hello, Talia,” Chris greeted, a kind smile lighting his face.

“Hello, old friend,” Talia replied. She turned sharply, her gaze turning into a fierce glare as she stared at her brother.

Peter glowered back at her.

“We’ll handle him,” Deucalion reassured her, his smoky grey eyes directed at her.

“He will be stripped of his powers and sent to Tartarus,” Chris announced.

“I’ll take him there myself,” Deucalion offered, nodding in agreement.

Chris turned to where Stiles sat, leaning against Derek’s shoulder. “Stiles, if you could—”

The boy looked up at Chris who nodded towards Peter. He let out a heavy sigh and begrudgingly drew the roots back, freeing the man.

Deucalion hoisted the man to his feet and Chris stepped forward, resting his hand against Peter’s chest.

There was a burst of blinding light.

Stiles turned his face away, squinting as he buried his face in Derek’s chest.

Derek arched over him, cradling Stiles’ head to his chest and using his body to shield the boy from the light.

As it dimmed, they blinked their eyes open, turning to see Peter sagging in Deucalion’s hold.

Deucalion said something to Chris before vanishing, taking Peter with him.

Chris turned back to where Stiles and Derek sat on the floor. John knelt by his son’s side, his pale eyes full of water despite his son reassuring him that he was alright.

“Derek,” Chris called. “You kept your word. Thank you.”

Derek nodded.

Chris turned to Talia. “Your son is a good man.”

Talia smiled. “I know.”

She took a step forward, bending over to press a kiss to the crown of her son’s head before walking over to the heavy oak door and shoving it shut. She slid the heavy iron bolt into place, her figure burring into wisps of smoke.


	8. Epilogue

Stiles stepped into the large room, crossing over to the edge of the bed where a stack of clothes had been laid out for him. A black cotton vest had been laid across the blankets, embroidered with silver and gold. Shining gems were fitted into the detailed lace, tracing out patters of leaves, vines, and flowers. The embroidery ran across the chest and along the hem. Beside it lay a cape and a pair of pants.

He stripped out of his while robes, feeling the soft cotton brush against his skin as he undressed. He picked up the black pants, pulling them on and fastening them around his slender waist.

He froze, his eyes focused on the pale pink scar that ran across his stomach. His numb fingers brushed across his gut, feeling the smooth scarred flesh.

He felt his heart sink, a heavy weight settling in his chest.

Strong arms wrapped around him from behind, Derek’s warmth pressed up against his back. He pressed a light kiss into the curve of Stiles’ neck and whispered, “It doesn’t make you any less beautiful.”

“You don’t have to lie,” Stiles muttered, grabbing the vest that lay across the bed. He pulled it on, hearing Derek chuckle lightly behind him as he helped him unfurl the bunched fabric.

“I’m not lying,” Derek said softly. “You are—and always will be—the most gorgeous person I’ve ever seen.”

“Narcissus would disagree.”

Derek scoffed. “He could only dream of being as beautiful as you.”

Stiles let out a breathless laugh, dropping his head to hide the rosy-pink blush that coloured his cheeks.

Derek’s hands settled on his hips, gently turning Stiles to face him. He stared at him dreamily as he said, “My king—”

There a loud bark as Cerberus ran into the room, standing in the doorway and shaking with excitement.

Derek rolled his eyes, looking over his shoulder at the hound. “Really?”

Cerberus’ wiggling intensified, his paws patting at the ground as he struggled to stay in place.

Stiles cupped his hand over his mouth in an attempt to smother his laugh.

Derek turned back to Stiles, raising an inquisitive eyebrow.

Stiles smiled and nodded.

Derek let out a reluctant sigh and stepped aside. He turned to Cerberus and said, “Alright, your turn.”

Cerberus bounded forward, sliding across the ground as he struggled to sit his wagging tale down. He pressed his heads against Stiles’ waist, grinning as Stiles chuckled and gently patted his three heads.

Cerberus turned to Derek, straining his necks to lick the man’s face.

“Thanks,” Derek muttered, using the back of his sleeve to wipe the slobber off his face.

Content, Cerberus toddled out of the room and back through the large doors.

Stiles looked at Derek, smiling sweetly as he stepped over to his side. A dark glint of mischief passed through his eyes as he closed the distance between them, looping his arms around Derek’s shoulders. He leant in close and whispered, “You were saying?”

Derek’s lips quivered around unspoken works, his gaze focused on the dark depths of Stiles eyes.

Stiles let out a soft laugh. “Just kiss me.”

Derek did. He leant forward, bringing his lips to Stiles’.

Stiles let his breath fall from his lungs as his shoulders dropped. Derek dropped his hands to Stiles’ waist and pulled him close, enveloping him in his warmth. One of Stiles’ hands glided up Derek’s arm, up his bicep and across his shoulder blade. His fingers slid into Derek’s hair, lacing the soft locks between them as he tried to pull Derek closer.

Derek sighed in return, craning his neck as he deepened the kiss. His fingers toyed with the hem of Stiles’ shirt, sliding under the cotton. His hand glided up Stiles’ side, feeling the curve of his waist and the small of his back. He wanted to feel every inch of skin.

His lungs burnt so much he wanted to cry but he desperately didn’t want to let go. He drew back, gasping for air.

Stiles tilted his chin, chasing his Derek’s lips.

Derek brought them back together again, but this time was different; more gentle and loving. He kissed him lightly. When he drew back again, he dropped his head, resting his forehead against Stiles’.

“My king,” he whispered lowly.

**Author's Note:**

> celestialvoid-fanfiction.tumblr.com


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